


It Was Always You

by wingsofbadass



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom!Marco, Break Up, Dorks that just can't stop loving each other, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Phone Calls, M/M, Phone Sex, Top!Jean, make-up sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3532385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofbadass/pseuds/wingsofbadass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The term break-up doesn't seem right,” he rasped in reply, opening his eyes but still not looking back at Marco. Beautiful, warm Marco. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in those arms, let the familiar feel of his skin and the sound of his heartbeat soothe the cruel ache raging inside of him. Instead, he just said: “To me, break-up implies that we no longer want to be together.”</p><p>***<br/>A story about leaving and returning to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Always You

**Author's Note:**

> It was on Valentine's Day that I thought: Wouldn't it be great if Jean and Marco broke up? And this is the result! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> A big, heart-felt thank you to Poppy and Laurel without whom this fic would never have happened. You guys are incredible and your encouragement and help is priceless. (Like a certain credit card.)

Just coming down from his dizzying high, Jean let out a sated sigh and rolled off Marco onto his back. There was nothing but the blood thundering through his veins and their combined labored breathing, filling the room along with the pale light of the January sunset streaming in through the window.

A hoarse cackle rose from Jean's throat and soared past his swollen lips, an uncontrollable, helpless sound that made Marco turn his head to look at him, eyebrows raised. Jean dug the balls of his hands into his eyes and watched patterns swirl behind his lids as his chest kept convulsing with bitter laughter.

“That was fucking amazing,” Jean managed eventually. He dropped his hands to his bare chest and turned his face towards Marco, trying to ignore the way his heart gave a painful squeeze at the sight of that gorgeous flush underneath the freckles and the mussed state of that black hair. The distance between them felt like such a foreign thing.

“Mhmm, it was,” Marco agreed, his voice beautifully raw from the way he'd been moaning for Jean just moments ago. He rolled onto his side, muscles shifting under his sweaty skin, and propped his head up on his hand to lay his dark eyes on Jean. “That's the way break-up sex is supposed to be, isn't it?”

Jean grimaced at the way his heart plummeted from the high, came crashing down again. “Don't call it that.”

Marco's warm gaze didn't waver, seemingly calm as he gave a half-shrug with one shoulder. “That's what it was.”

Silent, Jean held his gaze for a couple of moments, before he feared the pain in his chest was about to burst out of him, tear through his seams and unravel him. He swallowed it down with an audible gulp and opted to grab around on the bedside table, until he found the packet of cigarettes he kept for occasions like this one. The sweat slowly drying on his skin felt cold now, as he held a cigarette between his lips and lit it with barely steady hands. Holding the first drag in his lungs made it easy to pretend the dull pain he felt was smoke-induced.

“What would you call it, then?” Marco asked carefully, while Jean watched strings of fume sway in the air above them.

He shrugged, taking another drag and exhaling the answer along with a cloud of misery. “A good-bye, maybe.”

“What's the difference?”

Pain blossomed anew in Jean's chest, blinding and ugly, and he squeezed his eyes shut once more, trying to convince himself it was the cigarette that made them burn pitifully.

“The term break-up doesn't seem right,” he rasped in reply, opening his eyes but still not looking back at Marco. Beautiful, warm Marco. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in those arms, let the familiar feel of his skin and the sound of his heartbeat soothe the cruel ache raging inside of him. Instead, he just said: “To me, break-up implies that we no longer want to be together.”

“Jean...”

God, the way he said his name. He would never get to hear it again, the way the sounds danced along his lips. Unable to take that thought, Jean sat up abruptly and swung his feet over the edge of the bed.

“I'm gonna go take a shower,” he choked out and almost fled from his bedroom without looking at his– at Marco.

He smoked the rest of the cigarette too fast, too hot, sitting on the edge of the tub and reveling in the artificial burn it caused in his chest. Anything was better than the feeling of loss tearing him apart from the inside out.

Jean gave himself five minutes to sob quietly under the drum of the hot water, five minutes to mourn the love of his fucking life going down the drain, five minutes to recall all the reasons they could no longer be together. When he stepped out of the shower, he rifled through the fresh laundry and put on whatever, trying not to despair at the scent of the stupid, flowery fabric softener Marco had bought him to save his scratchy-ass towels.

Marco had used Jean's time in the bathroom to get dressed. He sat on the faded couch in Jean's living room, his right leg bouncing in agitation. Slowly, Jean walked over until he was standing right in front of him. Under different circumstances, this was when Marco would wind his arms around Jean's waist with a smile and press his face against his stomach. Jean would stroke his fingers through the thick strands of Marco's hair and his heart would swell at the happy little noises the gesture always elicited. Now, however, Marco was not even looking at him, raising a hand to his lips and starting to chew on his thumb nail.

Instinctively, Jean reached out to pull Marco's hand away from his mouth and lace their fingers together. “Don't do that,” he said softly.

At that, Marco did look up at him, red eyes swimming with tears and a terrible yearning they both knew they couldn't afford to satisfy. It tore at Jean to see the same pain that was eating away at him reflected in the drawn lines of Marco’s usually happy face. It made him want to fall to his knees and beg, plead pathetically for Marco to stay, but he knew that wouldn't be fair.

“I can't believe this is happening,” Marco whispered fiercely, shaking his head in awe at the way this was just ending, without a fight, without some sort of big bang. There was no violent storm to sink their ship. There was just standing by as the inevitable water pressed in around them, dragging them down slowly. Four years at sea, only to find themselves drowned by the currents dragging in different directions.

Jean's grip on Marco's hand tightened and he squeezed right back as though, if they just held on, it could be enough to keep them fused together. He couldn’t help but admire the weave of their intertwined fingers, Marco’s tanned, strong hand, so warm and gentle with everything he touched, fitted perfectly to the slender, pale digits of Jean’s own hand.

“I’m gonna miss my flight at this rate,” Marco chuckled with little humor after a while, the sound nothing but misery. The unspeakable words burned in the back of Jean’s throat as he watched Marco get to his feet and start to move toward the door, his hand still in Jean’s. He let himself be dragged after Marco in a daze, his everything shaking with the effort of holding back what he needed to say but couldn’t. Marco was not looking at him as he slipped on his shoes and jacket. Jean, however, was desperate to memorize every single part of him. His gaze was frantic in its flitting over the curve of Marco’s strong back, in its running along every rise and fall of his features, in its clinging to every freckle he’d ever touched and kissed and loved.

He couldn’t fucking take this.

The impulse rose in him like a violent surge and Jean was far too weak in this moment to resist the yearning swelling in his chest. He flew forward, colliding with Marco, whose arms surrounded him instantly, as though they’d waited to catch him. Always ready to steady him.

“Fuck, fuck, I hate this!” Jean growled into the crook of Marco’s neck, fists bunching up the fabric over his broad chest, and he was sure he’d fall apart but for the crushing hold Marco had on him.

“Jean, please.”

Marco was the one to break down and beg. His chest quaked with sobs as he gasped the little word into Jean’s ear again and again, aware even now that putting voice to his vain hope would change nothing at all. And all Jean could do is hold on and bite his lip to keep it all from spilling from his own mouth, from indulging Marco and being resented for it later.

_Don’t go, please don’t go._

But it had all been said. Every mention of long distance and coming along and staying chipping away at them, until they’d circled from discussion to fight to make up in an endless, agonizing loop they seemed unable to break free of. Only when the only possible solution had begun to settle over them like dense dust had the whirlwind slowed down around them, with the broken debris of them coming to a horrid rest.

This moment hurt like hell, for both of them, but they knew it wouldn't last forever. Unlike the endless pain they'd have to endure if they tried keeping their relationship up over the distance. They weren't built for pining, yearning. They'd always stood on a foundation of finding solace in each other's arms, of talking in meaningful glances and smiles, of being at home with each other.

So he swallowed those words that were rising in him like bile.

Their lips found each other in a messy clash of a kiss. Mouths hungry and frenzied, they moved together, dying to smother the ache as well as the brutal hope somehow still throbbing in both their hearts. If only they could find a way. If only they could be strong enough. If only, if only.

Hotly, searingly, they kissed; lips and tongues sliding against each other while Jean cradled Marco’s face in his hands, wiped uselessly at the tears streaming down his cheeks with shaking thumbs. The way Marco seemed unable to stop sobbing and shaking broke Jean’s heart more than any of the words that had fallen between them in this whole mess ever could have. Marco’s grip on him was so tight it appeared unlikely he would ever let go of him and, just for a moment, Jean gave himself over to that fantasy.

“I love you,” he breathed against Marco’s lips when they separated for the tiniest fraction. “I love you so fucking much.”

Marco’s mouth was back on his in a flash, heedless of the need for breath, willing to choke himself on Jean to savor this feeling between them.

“I love you, too,” came the gasping reply, hot against Jean’s wet lips, and he shuddered helplessly in Marco’s arms. Jean pressed his forehead to Marco’s temple, eyes pressed shut, and tried to catch his breath. They stood there, clutching at each other in silence. There was nothing left to say. All the words had long been heard, yelled, cried. All there was was this moment. This last moment of Jean and Marco.

“I have to go,” Marco whispered when his sobs had quietened, still holding on, palms stroking warmly over Jean’s back.

“Text me when you get there, okay?” Jean’s voice was barely recognizable, little more than a pathetic rasp. He felt Marco nod against him.

When Marco did eventually step away from him with the saddest smile Jean had ever seen, an expression so wrong on his lovely face that it was like a punch to the gut, Jean could feel something inside of him break. One last kiss, soft and simple, and then he was gone.

 

* * *

 

With a grunt, Jean turned onto his back, eyes on the dark ceiling. Shadows moved across it like ghosts when a car drove down the street, illuminating the night with headlights and eeriness. A glance at his phone told him it was 4:47. For a moment, Jean struggled with himself, before he gave in and opened his messages. He felt fucking weak as he scrolled down three weeks’ worth of conversations with people until he reached Marco’s name.

 

From Marco:

_Hey, I arrived at my apartment safely. I’m super exhausted and so close to just passing out on this bed without any sheets on. Let’s see if I can reach the right box without getting up ;) Good night, Jean!_

 

To Marco:

_Good night._

 

 

Shame still flared up at the sight of that insufficient reply he’d typed that night with a heavy heart, paralyzed by grief and the what-if of their good-bye. And still those unsaid words were swirling around his mind like stale smoke, lingering with no other motive than to make his stomach churn.

Jean could find no rest from thoughts of Marco. When he wasn’t sinking in a swamp of sweet memories and bitter scenarios, he tried to imagine what Marco was doing over in fancy-ass Stohess. He couldn’t help but picture him in the sun that was such a rare gift in Trost but a regular companion of Marco’s new home. He wondered if fresh freckles had bloomed across his skin already. He wondered if Marco had managed to find his sheets or whether he was lazily sleeping on his bare bed. He wondered if he thought of Jean at all.

He missed Marco so much it was like a chronic ache in his chest. And on this Thursday night, at 04:43, with his eyes burning, he found himself too powerless to keep himself from pressing the call button. His heart was hammering wildly against his ribs, in anticipation and dread in equal measures, the rush of his pulse in his ears nearly drowning out the dial tone.

“Jean?” came Marco’s sleepy mumble and Jean had to bury his face in the pillow as he was assaulted with the breathless elation of hearing that wonderful voice, at hearing his name breathed into the distance between them so gently he might as well have whispered right in his ear. It was like a fist was finally loosening its grip on Jean’s heart and the sensation stunned him into silence for a moment. “Jean, are you okay?”

Jean swallowed, before he dared make any kind of noise. “Y-yeah,” he croaked. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“Mmmhhh, kinda, but it’s okay,” Marco said softly and Jean could hear him stretch languidly. “Why are you calling?”

_I miss you._

The words were on the tip of his tongue, struggling to break free, but Jean fought them down.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Have you tried the Sleepy Potion?”

In spite of himself, Jean felt his lips tug up into a small smile. “It doesn’t work unless you make it.”

“Oh, shut up, you’re just too lazy!” The playfully strict tone in Marco’s voice was so soothing, it had Jean close his eyes in an attempt to fool himself into believing Marco was actually next to him.

The awkwardness Jean had dreaded was mercifully absent between them.

“It’s totally true, though. You have magic hands, you know you do,” he argued, fondness so ridiculously apparent in the way his voice dropped, but he couldn’t find it in himself to give a fuck about that. He’d flushed his pride down the toilet the moment he’d pressed the call button. “Plus, I ran out of milk.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

“You could tell me about your new life,” Jean said carefully. There was no bitterness in his tone, thank God. Marco was silent for a heartbeat, before he cleared his throat.

“What do you wanna know?”

“Have you settled in alright?”

“Yeah, almost everything is unpacked, expect for the winter clothes and some shoes.”

“Even the sheets?”

Marco’s rich laugh shot right to Jean’s heart, spreading a warmth through his chest he’d missed so dearly without even realizing. “Yeah, I did manage to find them on the first night. I only realized I’d put them on inside out the next day, though.”

“Scandalous.”

“I know, please don’t tell my mom.”

Jean chuckled. “I promise.”

“How is your mother doing, by the way?” Marco asked, sounding more serious now and Jean allowed his chest to crack a little at the question, at the way Marco had so easily found the cause of his sleeplessness. Even from so far away he was able to read him like a palmist tracing the lines in his hand.

Jean was glad about the way Marco asked about her, not letting her indirect role in all of this cloud his honest care for people. Marco was still such a good person, even for him, even after what had happened, and it made Jean ache for his embrace more than ever.

“She’s not doing so great,” Jean answered, trying for some stoic bravado and not really succeeding. “I went to see her today, but she,” he cleared his throat of the rising lump before continuing, “she didn’t recognize me.”

“Oh, no,” Marco breathed and Jean wanted to lose himself in the sound of his caring voice, because that was what Marco did; he cared. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Jean’s eyes shot open, heart startled into a crazed thrum at that word. There was a beat of silence in which Marco realized what he’d just said.

“T-that just kinda slipped out, I’m s–“

“No,” Jean interrupted with a small voice, “Please don’t take it back.”

The hush that fell between them felt solemn, if slightly anxious, as though they’d stepped into a church. Jean felt almost dizzy with the emotions rocking through him, bittersweet to the core with the affection and regret he knew Marco felt as well.

His eyes burned.

“How is the job?” Jean asked when he was sure he could open his mouth without spilling the tears he was holding back. With his free hand, he began picking at a loose thread that had come undone from the edge of the pillow case.

Marco took a breath. “It’s great, it really is. There is a great atmosphere in the office, not like in Trost, you know? And they actually care about my ideas and thoughts even though I’m still just the new guy.”

“That sounds great,” Jean said honestly. Marco was so damn talented, and no matter how much Jean was hurting right now, he would always be proud of what Marco had achieved. It would’ve been easy to let himself be taken over by resentment for this new development in Marco’s life that had taken him away from Jean. But he couldn’t be. He'd even encouraged him to take the job, after all. “Any cool co-workers?”

“Oh, yeah, everyone is really nice. Maybe a little snobby – you know how Stohess is – but I’ve gone out to dinner with a couple of them and it was fun.”

Jean felt so childish, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking anyway. “Anyone special?”

Marco didn’t scoff at his ridiculous, and frankly rude, question. Jean was his ex. He had no business asking him about that shit. But this was Marco, and if there was someone he could be sure he could always speak his mind with, no matter what happened between them, it was him.

With an earnestness that nearly knocked Jean breathless, he replied: “No, no one.”

“Are you happy over there?”

Marco seemed to mull that one over for a moment, letting out a puff of breath, and Jean pictured him lying on his back, fingers brushing through his hair until it stood up in different directions.

“I’m happy with the job, yeah.”

The implication made Jean’s throat constrict.

 

* * *

 

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Oh, oh, hey.”

Jean could hear Marco hesitate for a second. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

A nervous chuckle flew from Jean’s lips, before he could stop it. He briefly considered lying, but he’d never been a good liar. And this was Marco. Not only had he never felt the need to lie to him, but Marco would’ve seen through him with ridiculous ease anyway.

“I was kinda watching porn,” he admitted a little sheepishly, ready for Marco’s laughter.

“Anything good?” Marco asked, a slight teasing edge to his tone, but doubtlessly curious. Jean could feel heat climbing up his neck and spreading over his cheeks, which was laughable considering the things they’d done together. But this was different somehow, something that should no longer be inside of their comfort zone with each other.

“Y-yeah, it’s pretty good.”

Marco let out an appreciative hum that sent the flush of heat down to Jean’s already hard dick.

“Are they in the cowboy position?” Marco asked, smile apparent in his voice even through the phone. Fuck, he really knew Jean inside out. The thought set a melancholic longing alight inside of Jean that threatened to choke him.

“You know me too well.”

“You touching yourself?” Marco’s voice was barely more than a breath, deep and rich, as though he was right there next to him. Jean closed his eyes, no longer giving a fuck about the lewd scene on his screen, and gave himself over to the sound of Marco’s voice.

“Not yet,” he rasped, hand stroking down his bare chest. “Do you want me to?”

“I want to hear you,” was Marco’s reply, so naked in his want that it made Jean exhale shakily.

“I wish you were here,” he confessed quietly as he let his fingers wander down further along his stomach, trying to imagine it were Marco’s warm hand mapping out all the familiar rises and falls of his body.

“Hhhmm, me too.” Marco voice was a murmur Jean knew well. It almost sounded like he was sleepy and the intimacy of it raised goose bumps over Jean’s skin. Jean knew better than to mistake Marco’s arousal for sleepiness; he knew every hitch of his breath like his own, knew the thick film of desire laying itself over Marco’s timbre and dragging it down to that low pitch Jean was so helpless against. “I’d ride you so good you’d forget all about that porn.”

Jean swallowed. Marco came alive behind his eyelids, his own private movie projected in his mind, where he hovered over Jean as he pumped his hips up and down. Jean burned, ached to feel that tight heat on his cock, sliding, squeezing.

With a needy whine, he gave in and pulled down his briefs with one hand to let his arousal bob free, while he put Marco on speakerphone with the other. He wrapped his fingers around himself and started stroking slowly.

“Marco, you make me so damn hot,” he panted into the receiver, listening to the pleased hum at the other end of the line. Nothing worked Marco up quite like praise. “Just thinking of your ass has got me hard.”

“I wish I could feel how hard you are. Squeeze yourself for me.”

Jean complied and let out a moan he otherwise might have tried to muffle, just because he knew how much Marco liked it.

“You sound so good, Jean.”

“I wanna hear you, too. I wanna hear you like you’re fucking yourself on my dick.”

A shivery “Oh, God” came from Marco’s lips as Jean kept stroking himself with a tight grip. He could just picture Marco’s face so damn well. The way his mouth would drop open on that delicious sound and the way he would struggle to keep his eyes open through the pleasure because he wanted to keep looking down at Jean. He could picture the scrunched up curve of his eyebrows and the way he shuddered in Jean’s lap.

When Marco spoke again, there was no mistaking the way he was holding back his moaning. He was touching himself as well, thinking of Jean and, God, the thought left him breathless. “If I were there, I’d ride you in reverse cowboy,” Marco gasped, “so you could watch how I take your dick. How you'd fill me up.”

The image drew itself onto the canvas of Jean’s imagination without difficulty and he gave another moan as he sped up the strokes of his hand, letting the tight ring of his fingers tease the ridge of his dick’s head. He could picture it so clearly; the spread of Marco’s long thighs over his hips and the fullness of his cheeks in Jean’s hands as he grabbed at them greedily, pulling them apart to get a better look at how they were joined.

His face burned, felt like it was set on fire by the mental image of Marco stretched open and wrapped around his dick, so warm and damn tight. Gripping himself more firmly, Jean could almost believe Marco was actually there, raising and lowering his hips and fucking himself roughly on Jean’s cock. Each time his ass met Jean’s hips, cheeks bouncing, he would take him so deep, the sensation almost dizzyingly good.

Marco was breathing heavily in his ear, damn him, wordless in his own pleasure as he sometimes got, too overwhelmed and lost in the feeling clouding his mind to formulate words, and usually Jean loved it. Loved the way he could render Marco absolutely speechless, until he was reduced to nothing more than shaking limbs and throaty moans. But he needed so much more right now.

“Talk to me, baby, I’m so close, please.”

Marco whined at Jean’s needy tone, something he’d never been able to resist.

“I want you to wreck me,” Marco pleaded, “I want you so bad–“ His voice pitched high on that last syllable, before he interrupted himself with a husky groan. And then he broke down into a melody of shameless moaning, so gorgeous it fanned the tingle in Jean’s groin to a fiery spark.

Jean was barely stroking himself now, while he listened to Marco come, fingers tight while he rubbed along that sensitive spot just below the head. Every part of him was throbbing with need, heart thundering and blood rushing. And then he was coming as well, a wave of hot bliss rolling over him and pulling his body taut, trembling and whimpering for Marco.

“God, you sound so hot,” was what Marco whispered to him after their moans had subsided and Jean let out a gratified hum, as he basked in the afterglow, not concerning himself with the jizz on his stomach and right hand for now. It lasted for a couple of seconds, a little moment of warm happiness, and then the loneliness came crashing back with greater force than before.

It was almost shockingly sobering, how the thoughts rushed back to remind him of their situation. In an attempt to fight the new wave of heartbreak, Jean reached over to the bedside table to grab some tissues and started cleaning himself up with shaking hands.

“Jean? Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” he replied, voice choked, and he winced at how obvious he was being, how stupidly hurt he was, and why the fuck were these stupid smears not coming out of the line of hair on his stomach? Cursing loudly he rubbed at his skin some more, before flinging the tissues thoughtlessly across the room. With a huff that might’ve been a sob, Jean rolled onto his side to press his face into the pillow.

“You okay?” Marco sounded hesitant, sad.

“No,” Jean growled, muffled by the pillow. He turned his face slightly towards the phone. “I fucking miss you.”

He heard Marco swallow. “I miss you too.” The impossibility of holding him in that moment made Jean’s chest hurt.

They stayed on the phone, barely talking, just occasionally breaking the silence to repeat the words to the other as though they could somehow bridge the self-inflicted distance and make up for the fact that they no longer shared a life.

 

* * *

 

It only took Jean a glance at the neat handwriting on the top of the large parcel the mailman handed over to douse him in a giddy excitement that was almost embarrassing. The man looked slightly surprised by the bright “thank you!” Jean threw over his shoulder, before nudging the door closed with his bare heel, but Jean was beyond caring at that point.

He hurried into the living room and dropped to his knees to set the brown package onto the carpet. With careful fingers, he traced the way Marco had handwritten his name and address onto the cardboard with a black marker, in all upper-case letters as though normal capitalization was not enough to hold his excitement.

Jean's heart twinged with the memory of how this day should have gone.

It should have started with Jean waking up wrapped around Marco, his nose buried in the back of his neck, arms squeezed around his waist. And Marco would've turned around to face him with those grumpy little sounds he always made in the morning, but his expression would've brightened as he looked at him. He would've kissed Jean, warm and soft, then whispered “happy birthday” against his lips. And then he would've kissed down his neck and down his chest, down, down, over his sensitive stomach and his bony hips, always down.

Marco would've made breakfast for Jean, taken the time to make his amazing crêpes that always made Jean feel like he failed at being French. They would've eaten them in bed, still naked and carefree and –

God, he needed to stop this. He shook his head like a wet dog, trying to fling the enticing, unattainable fantasy from this mind and refocusing his eyes on the parcel before him.

CALL ME BEFORE OPENING, it read in large letters, so he pulled his phone out of his pocket and called.

“Did you get it?” Marco asked as soon as he'd picked up.

Jean smiled. “I did.”

“And you haven't opened it yet?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, do it now!” he urged and Jean put him on speakerphone and laid the phone aside. Then he grabbed the pizza cutter he'd left on the couch table the night before to cut through the tape holding the package together. Marco would've groaned at him if he were with him. “Oh. Happy birthday, Jean.”

The fondness in Marco's voice threatened to undo Jean, so he concentrated on opening the present, mumbling a small “thank you” into the air.

Inside the package was, of course, another parcel wrapped in bright, colorful paper with Spiderman on it. Jean weighed it in his hands curiously, inspecting the white specs on the wrapping.

“Why does it say Merry Christmas?” he asked with an amused snort.

“It was either that or Easter bunnies,” Marco replied in a tone that suggested there would be no mocking of the wrapping paper.

“Alright, I'm going in.”

Tearing right through Spidey unceremoniously, Jean unwrapped Marco's gift until he was left with something unexpected in his hands. It was a stuffed toy.

“It's called a Sorgenfresser,” Marco explained gently. _Sorrow eater,_ his mind translated the German effortlessly. Jean looked at the thing, taking in its large eyes and zipper mouth, stroked over the soft material with his fingers. “You can write your worries on a piece of paper and feed it to him and he'll eat them.”

Jean's mind wandered to his mother, who had no idea what day it was, had no idea that she had a son who was turning 27 today. He gulped. And he thought of the love of his life on the other side of this line who didn't owe him a damn thing, yet still had thought to send him something thoughtful, who was not here beside him, leaving an empty space torn in his soul.

“That's really sweet,” he said, surprised to find his voice sounding gruff. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“And you can cuddle him to make yourself feel better,” Marco went on, sounding somehow small all of a sudden. “In case you need someone to hug.”

Struggling to swallow down the lump in his throat, Jean hugged the toy – according to a little tag, called Ed – to his chest and closed his eyes.

“You should have one, too,” Jean told him.

“I do have one.”

Silence settled over them and Jean imagined that Marco was hugging his Sorgenfresser as well.

“Have you fed something to it?” he asked into Ed's scarred head.

“Yeah, I have,” Marco replied and Jean was burning to ask what sorrow had landed behind that zip mouth, but knew he had no right to ask. And maybe he was not ready to hear that it was not about him.

“Did it help?”

The humming sound of a smile. “A little. You should put one in.”

“Okay, give me a minute.”

When Jean returned with a post-it and a pen, he hesitated, the tip of the pen hovering over the piece of paper.

“Just write what comes to mind first,” Marco said, sensing Jean's hesitance. “You don't have to censor yourself.”

Jean nodded, even though Marco couldn't see him, and started writing. He was glad Marco was unable to see the way his hand trembled as he wrote his name onto the paper, turning the O at the end into something more like a squiggly egg. When he was finished, he folded the post-it up, before looking at it for too long started dragging him down. He stuffed the sorrow into Ed's mouth and pulled the zipper shut, then let out an exhale.

“Feel better?” came Marco's question.

“Not sure.”

 

* * *

 

When Jean felt his phone vibrate against his thigh, he almost dropped the pot of pasta he’d just been meaning to upend into the strainer in the sink. He let out a surprised squeal he was glad nobody was around to hear and placed the pot back onto the stove to worm his hand into the pocket of his skinny jeans. He’d stopped feeling ashamed of the little leap his heart gave every single time at the sight of Marco’s name flashing across the screen.

“Hey,” he greeted with a smile, and held the phone against his ear with his shoulder so he could go back to the task at hand.

“Hi!“ came Marco‘s bright reply. “Guess what I‘m doing tonight.“

“Uuuuhhh,“ Jean mused, drawing out the sound, while he shook the strainer full of pasta to get rid off excess water. “Saying the wrong name at the altar?“

Marco‘s breathy chuckle was enough to make Jean wanna bang his head against the stove. He was so fucking adorable, it was unfair.

“Have you been watching too much Friends again?“

“Marco, there is no such thing as _too much Friends_.“

“Okay, that‘s true,“ Marco conceded. Jean could hear rummaging in the background, probably getting ready to go out. “But no, I‘m not doing that. Guess again.“

“Come on, dude, you know I hate guessing,“ he growled at the pasta he was now stirring into the sauce as though it might offer the answer to Marco‘s silly game.

“I‘m going out for karaoke.“

That made Jean burst into loud laughter and he could picture Marco‘s pout on the other end of the line so clearly. “Aw, shit, I wish I could be there to see _that_!“ he called teasingly.

“Yeah, me too,“ Marco replied in unexpectedly earnestness. The laughter died in Jean‘s throat.

Trying to gloss over the melancholy aching in his chest, Jean asked, “You going out with people from work?”

“Yeah, it‘s Sam‘s birthday,“ Marco replied. “He already said all drinks are on him.“

“Don‘t try to strip on stage again, you lightweight.” Jean turned off the stove top and lidded the Carbonara before turning and leaning backwards against the kitchen unit.

“Shut up, Mr. Puked-after-two-beers.”

“Hey, I had food poisoning from that horrible Mexican place we –”

A theatrical scoff. “Nobody believes you, Jean.”

“You’re so lucky you’re not here or I’d beat you up with the wooden spoon.”

Marco giggled. “Kinky. Are you cooking?”

“Mhm, Spaghetti Carbonara.”

The wistful whine Marco gave at that took Jean back to a different night in this very apartment, over four years ago, and he swallowed heavily.

“Remember the first time you made that for me?”

“How could I forget?” He’d meant for it to sound teasing, but instead his tone had come out husky with emotion. He cleared his throat. “That was when you ruined the rug with red wine.”

“I could claim _you_ ruined it yourself.“ There was a soft smile in Marco‘s voice Jean would have given anything to see in that moment.

“Excuse me?“ he challenged. “ _You_ spilled your glass.“

“Hhhmmm, only because you were kissing me like that.“

Jean‘s heart stuttered, then sent a violent wave of heat into his cheeks.

“Totally worth it,“ he breathed, letting his eyes flutter closed at the memory of that night. “Fuck the rug.“

“I can‘t believe you still have that thing in your living room.“ There was a slight pause. “Or have you trashed it since – since the last time I was there?“

Jean swallowed. “N-no, I still have it. And the stain is still expertly covered by the ottoman.“

Marco let out another little laugh and lowered his voice to a pseudo-serious grumble Jean was very familiar with. „The ottoman that must not be moved.“

„Voldoman,“ Jean snorted in reply, enjoying this moment that seemed like it had been taken out of a time they‘d been so happy silly puns were enough to hold them together.

“So what are you doing tonight?” Marco asked when he'd stopped his giggles. “Staying in?”

“Yeah, I, uh, was out pretty late last night with Connie and Sasha,” he said and turned to stir the pasta some more although that wasn't really necessary.

“How the hell did they get you to come along as the fifth wheel?” Jean didn't even need to see Marco's raised eyebrow. He suddenly felt uncomfortably hot.

“Uhm, Mina was there as well.”

Taken aback, it took Marco a moment to place the name. “Is she the one with the pigtails from Sasha's birthday?”

“Yeah, that's her.” Jean had no idea why he'd brought her up. Speaking to Marco so casually all the time had made him thoughtless. Marco was his ex. His ex who knew him better than anyone, who could read him like his favorite book.

“Wait, was that a _date_?” There was acid in the way Marco spat out the last word, burning a hole through Jean's guts.

“What? No!” Jean stammered, startled. “I don't know, Connie brought her along!”

“So it was a date.” Marco's voice was neutral now, carefully blank in his statement, but Jean could feel guilt flood through him nonetheless. With uneasiness buzzing through him, he pushed off of the kitchen unit and started pacing around the tiny kitchen.

“It was just a one time thing, I didn't even –“

“What do you mean _a one tim_ – oh my god, you had sex with her.”

Jean's heart plummeted into his stomach at the devastation resonating in Marco's voice. He raised his hand to his hair and pushed it back nervously, mind racing, but no words coming out. Staying silent was not a choice, though, not when he could hear Marco laugh humorlessly at the other end.

“It didn't mean anything, Marco.” His words were laced with a sincerity he hoped would get through to Marco, make him understand that no person on this earth could ever compare to him, to what they two of them _had_. He needed Marco to know that he'd left his mark on Jean, one that would never fade, no matter what happened.

Marco didn't seem to hear him, though.

“I'm so fucking stupid,” he breathed bitterly, making Jean stop in his tracks. “I haven't even _looked_ at anyone since I came here and you're already out there fucking other people.”

Something hot started boiling in Jean's veins at those words.

“Hey, that's not fair, it's been five months since we broke up!” he bellowed into the phone, hands shaking with the anger he was choosing to focus on. Anything was better than the guilt etching through him.

“We were together for _four years_ , Jean!” Marco cried and Jean could hear how choked up he was getting. It hurt hearing him like this, even worse than the words that were being flung at him. “But apparently that meant nothing to you! Good to know that _I_ meant nothing to you at all!”

It didn't matter that Jean hadn't even liked the girl or that he'd thought about Marco during every single moment he'd been with her or that he still lay in bed each night wishing Marco were beside him. What mattered was that he'd fucking messed up, he'd hurt Marco in this awful situation none of them could change. That knowledge was more than he could bear.

So he did the only thing that felt like it could chase away the hurt.

“That's rich coming from you!” he yelled with his voice breaking, free hand punching against the door of the fridge loudly. He didn't even feel the impact. “ _You're_ the one who moved away to start a new life! _You're_ the one who fucking left me!”

As soon as Jean stopped talking, he regretted what he'd just said. He clapped a hand to his mouth uselessly as though he could reign the dangerous words back in, but it was too late. There was a wounded hush at Marco's end that yielded to a stifled sob.

“Jean, I'm –“ he managed after a little, voice strangled before it failed him. The stupid blooping sound of Jean's phone told him Marco had disconnected.

Panicked heartbeat thrumming in his ears, Jean called him back, only to be forwarded to his mailbox after one ring.

“Fuck!”

Jean just barely refrained from throwing his phone against the wall. Breathing heavily as though he'd just fought an actual physical fight, he set it down on the kitchen counter and stared at the floor. It only took only a couple of seconds until all the fight drained out of him, any strength seeping from his form with an almost dizzying suddenness. With a choked gasp he dropped to his knees.

The finality of that last silence was deafening.

He didn't bother holding back his pathetic tears.

 

* * *

 

The phone was heavy in Jean's hand.

He had no idea how long he'd been staring at it; it might've been hours or maybe just a handful of sluggish minutes full of being hurled around in a hurricane of doubt and hope. The parcel he'd sent had surely arrived already and some cowardly part of him wished Marco would take what he needed to do out of his hands.

Jean's phone stayed stubbornly silent, though, and he knew he had no right to expect otherwise.

The cheery words of the alarm Marco had saved to his calendar long ago, just like every year before, still flashed before his eyes. Like he needed a reminder. Like he hadn't thought about this day since the beginning of the month. Like he hadn't struggled with himself to gather up the guts to pick up the damn phone just _call_ him every single day, knowing how horrible he'd feel on the 16 th.

Marco fucking loved his birthday.

Jean's knuckles creaked as his fingers clenched around the phone.

He was so ashamed. What could he even say that Marco would want to hear? Every word Jean could think of was feeble, insufficient. He wasn't sure he'd be able to open his mouth and stop himself from miserably pleading with Marco to forgive him, no matter how meaningless it was. They were broken up anyway. There was nothing to beg for.

And yet it felt like a fresh heartbreak all over again.

With a tiny sound of defeat, Jean dumped the phone on his bed, face down, grabbed Ed and got up to get a bottle of wine from the fridge.

 

* * *

 

Jean had never thought the sight of Marco could make his heart feel so heavy.

Yet here he was, sitting alone at the bride‘s table while everyone danced, watching Marco twirl around Sasha‘s adorable little cousin on the dance floor, his face relaxed into his easy smile, warm and lovely and meant for everyone but Jean.

Marco looked so damn gorgeous. He was wearing that navy blue suit they‘d picked out together about a year ago and it still fit him perfectly. Jean found himself tracing the way the jacket sat on Marco‘s wide shoulders with his eyes, found himself staring at the way his butt filled out the slacks just right. His hair looked as soft as ever, falling into his eyes without looking sloppy; a look Jean would never have been able to pull off.

Watching Marco was like giving himself a constant stomach ache.

They were so close, closer than they‘d been in months, but Marco might just as well still have been in Stohess for all the good it did them. Actually, having him here without being able to touch him, talk to him was so painful it put the months of phone calls in the dead of night to shame.

That first moment, when Marco had stepped into the ballroom, had taken Jean's breath away. Not in the romantic sense, but rather because laying eyes on him again after five months of agonizing and craving had ripped through him in the most horrible and most perfect way at the same time.

Heart stuck in his throat, he'd watched Marco come up to their table to congratulate the newlyweds. Marco had avoided his gaze at first, until he'd apparently lost his resolve not to look at Jean. And if Jean had thought any of this had been hard, it was nothing compared to the emptiness falling heavy between them right then. No words had come, from either of them, while they'd consumed each other with starved eyes.

In the end, they'd turned away from each other again, brief connection dwindling and crumbling like a sand castle.

Forcing himself to finally look away from Marco‘s face, Jean searched for the reason he was in this miserable state in the first place.

Sasha and Connie were in the middle of the dance floor, of course, smiles radiant as they danced ridiculously to the tunes of Flo Rida. Having left her torturous high heels behind at the table, Sasha was now dancing with her bare feet hidden underneath her flowy white gown. Jean watched with a small smile as she spun wildly and tumbled against Connie who caught her and pressed a kiss to her lips.

Ugly jealousy rose up inside of him like vomit and he swallowed, training his eyes onto the white tablecloth in front of him. He still couldn‘t believe he was never going to have this happiness with Marco. Never hold him again. Never get kissed to stop his rambling.

He was a pitiful creature, he knew that, with his eyes burning and his fingers twisting the edge of the table cloth frantically, but he had no pride left. Not now. Not after the speech he had given as the best man. He took a deep breath to expel the memories of that mortifying moment from his mind, but he was already caught in the spiral of his own horrible thoughts. He thought back to the way he‘d stood up in front of everyone and congratulated their friends from the bottom of his heart. He thought about how he‘d choked out how lucky those two were to be with each other, in love with their best friend. He thought about how every single person in the fancy ballroom had known who he was talking about. He thought about how he hadn‘t dared to meet Marco‘s gaze that surely had been on him.

Jean had been such a fucking cliché, standing there with the pieces of his broken heart spilling from his mouth for the whole world to see.

He rubbed the tips of his fingers into his eyes, letting himself be distracted by the swirls of color, before he grabbed his glass of wine and drained what remained in it with one large gulp. When he set down his glass with a little too much vigor, a couple of red drops splattered out onto the white fabric.

“I wouldn‘t wanna be the person who has to do the laundry here.“

Startled, Jean looked up to see Marco standing in front of him, face unreadable. Up close, dark circles were apparent under his eyes. With his heart beating in his throat, Jean just stared at him, unable to find a single word to say.

Marco grimaced slightly. “That was a stupid thing to say.“ When Jean still didn‘t say anything, he asked, “How are you?“

Jean shrugged and flicked his eyes back down. “How about you?“

“I‘ve been better.“

That open response surprised him. When he looked back up, Marco looked sad for a tiny moment, before schooling his features back into something resembling a smile. He couldn‘t find it in his eyes, though. No matter how fake the smile, Marco still looked amazing and Jean was torn between wanting to avert his eyes and never wanting to look at anything else ever again.

“Can I sit down?“ He sounded nervous.

Jean gulped. “Sure.“ He expected Marco to sit down opposite him at the round table, but instead, he walked around to settle in the chair next to Jean, the seat that had been occupied by Connie‘s brother before. They sat in silence for a while, looking out onto the crowd, now dancing wildly to Uptown Funk.

“Did you know that Armin and Eren had a bet going on about which couple would get married first?“ Marco asked eventually, voice small but laced with a smile. Jean turned his head to look at him.

“Oh?“

“Now that Sasha and Connie got married, Eren won,“ he explained, still looking at the dance floor. “Armin was betting on us, though.“

Why Marco was telling him this, Jean had no idea. All he knew was that it hurt. Imagining himself with Marco, dancing at their own wedding, was like getting a stab to the chest. When Marco finally turned to look back at him, Jean thought he would crumble under the ache he saw in his eyes.

“Back then, I thought it would be us for sure,“ Marco whispered.

Something inside Jean snapped. He rose from his seat abruptly, suddenly no longer able to take this. With hurried steps, he weaved through the sea of tables and chairs as though in a daze, headed nowhere in particular. Just away.

“Jean, wait. _Please_.“

Marco‘s fingers wrapped around his elbow, bringing him to a halt halfway to the bar in the back. Jean's heart was thrumming painfully, begging with each beat for relief from this feeling.

“I can‘t –“ he started, addressing the hardwood floor, before interrupting himself. “How am I supposed to deal with this?“

“I don‘t know,“ Marco replied, desperation now rising in his voice, “but please don‘t leave me here.“

Jean‘s words from their last conversation hung heavily in the air between them.

“I‘m sorry about what I said,“ Jean choked out, vision blurring. “I didn‘t mean it, I swear.“

Marco was silent for an agonizing heartbeat. “It‘s okay. Well, no, not exactly okay, but I - I deserved it.“

Jean turned around at that, taking in the sincere regret on Marco‘s face.

“No, you didn‘t!“ he exclaimed and two women on a nearby table shot him weird looks he ignored. “You didn‘t leave me and I should never have said that!“

Marco gave a sad smile at that and looked down at his hand still on Jean‘s arm. “No, but I had no right to to fault you for moving on. I‘m sorry about that.“

“I haven't moved on, Marco.” The confession shivered over his lips, an unsteady breeze of words that was growing more and more solid in his mind the longer he looked at Marco.

Silence fell between them again as they both struggled with the emotions warring inside of them. The urge to kiss Marco was so strong it was almost overwhelming, but Jean held back, unsure what was happening between them.

“I don‘t know what I‘m supposed to do,“ he confessed quietly and Marco nodded in understanding.

“Will you dance with me?“ Marco asked after a moment, looking up.

Jean blinked at him in surprise. He didn't know if he could manage that – be so close to Marco, as though nothing had shifted between them. He could barely look at him without feeling the need to turn away in shame, so how was he supposed to survive looking at him and touching him like they were alright? Jean wanted to, though. What he wanted was for them to turn back into their former selves, the Jean and Marco who had nothing but trust and affection between them. He wanted what they had to be whole and unbroken. He wanted his Marco back. So he gathered all the courage he could muster, clenching his unsteady hands into fists, before agreeing with a little „okay.“

Marco looked so relieved at that Jean almost lost what little self-restraint he had. Marco‘s hand slipped from his elbow down to take his hand, twining their fingers in a familiar way that set something in Jean‘s chest aflutter. They made their way onto the dance floor without looking at each other. Just when Marco had found a good spot and he turned around to face Jean, some song by Nicki Minaj was cut off to be replaced by something slow.

Jean whipped his head around to look to the DJ booth, to see Ymir giving him an obnoxious thumbs up.

He rolled his eyes automatically and Marco smiled at that, a real little smile, just for him.

Marco stepped closer and put his arms around Jean‘s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jean‘s pulse stumbled at the proximity as he let his palms slide along Marco‘s waist until they rested on the small of his back. Their faces were so close now that Jean could have counted the freckles on Marco‘s skin.

It was very likely that Jean would've just stood there frozen, caught up in marveling at every tiny detail about Marco's features, if Marco hadn't started moving. His arms tightening around Jean's neck, he pulled him into his easy sway and soon they were turning, moving with each other slowly. Jean could barely even hear the music.

As complicated and hurtful as the words and feelings between them were, this was easy. The familiarity of Marco's body, his ever-present warmth was soothing the ache, quieting the storm of pain raging in him. Marco let out a barely noticeable sigh of relief that fanned softly across Jean's lips, sending a shiver down the length of his spine.

Abandoning all attempts at pretending this was anything else but an excuse to be close, Jean pulled Marco into him until there was no more space between them left. Until their hearts were beating so close it seemed impossible they were not going to burst through their rib cages to find each other.

Jean didn't know what kind of expression he was wearing, but he felt way too exposed like this, with Marco's unblinking eyes on him, seeing every flit of emotion he had never been able to hide from him. So he let himself tip forward slightly to press his cheek to Marco's shoulder, his nose to the side of his neck. A gentle hand slid up, over his nape, over the short hair at the base and then sank into the long strands at the back of his head.

The most bittersweet emotion was burning in Jean's chest as he stood there in Marco's arms and he closed his eyes to better block out anything that wasn't this moment, that wasn't Marco's scent and Marco's fingers playing with his hair and Marco's lips hovering close to his ear.

“I wish we could just –“ Apparently, even Marco didn't know what he wished for. Leaving his hope unspoken, he buried his face in the crook of Jean's shoulder in turn with a soft little sound that made Jean's heart lurch. He stroked his hands up and down Marco's back, tried to give back some of the comfort he was receiving, and felt tense muscles relax under his touch.

“I wish we could just stop the world for a little,” Jean said, eyes still closed as he let Marco move them. “So there'd be no jobs and no sick moms. Just us.”

“Maybe we can,” Marco whispered, voice broken into little shards of sorrow. “Just for today.”

They moved like one.

Their noses brushed first, a moment of hovering between hesitation and recklessness, before their lips met. Something in Jean's chest exploded into a symphony of every ardent thing he had ever felt for this incredible person that was shattering along with him. A weak sound left his throat as he moved his lips with Marco's, poured everything he had into this kiss, because never in his life had one touch carried the weight in his heart like this one. Marco deepened the kiss soon, mouth urgent on his and arms holding him so tightly.

The fact that they were kissing in the middle of the dance floor among all of their friends was only a tiny thought in the back of Jean's mind, one that was easily shoved aside. Just like the dark cloud of messed-up issues they couldn't figure out that threatened to burst down upon them. Because the only thing that mattered in this moment was kissing him amidst breathless gasps and burning touches.

“Let's go to my room,” Jean managed after what felt like an eternity of falling, drowning in him. Marco just nodded, taking deep gulps of breath, his eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and panic. They met for another kiss, reassuring and tender.

And then Jean took his hand and made his way out of the hall.

 

* * *

 

Jean felt dizzy. There was a fluttering in his chest, so intense and thrilling he felt like he was about to burst. Surely he was going to shatter and fall apart into countless pieces of joy any moment now. Marco’s lips were so soft, moving with his like they’d been created for nothing else, and Jean sighed shakily into the kiss.

With trembling fingers digging into Marco’s sides he pulled him flush against his chest, so desperate to hold him close that he couldn’t even think to touch him elsewhere.

Marco’s hands, however, were restless as they trailed over Jean's body, over his arms and his shoulders and his neck and into his hair, just touching, touching.

Marco broke the kiss for a moment and buried his face in the crook of Jean’s neck, a gesture so endearing Jean didn’t even know what to do with himself. He only had a moment to let himself be immersed in the overwhelming feeling of affection welling up inside of him, before Marco started walking backwards and pulled him along. Jean followed with his arms slung around Marco’s waist and his lips pressed to his hair. They fell onto the bed with breathless giggles that were soon muffled against their lips again and gave way to soft hums and sighs that tasted like home.

Jean had imagined their reunion so many times. There was no telling how often he’d closed his eyes and pictured the way they’d find each other again, with desperate hands tugging at each other and frantic collisions of their mouths and loud moans filling the air. He’d never expected it to be like this.

Unable to leave each other’s lips for longer than it took to draw a breath, they kissed so slowly, so deeply, while hands wandered carefully as though mapping out unknown territory. In truth, what they were doing was reveling in each other. Every touch was a new spark of familiarity and melancholy devotion that threatened to take Jean’s breath away.

With each piece of clothing that slid to the ground, with each inch of skin laid bare, they turned back into Jean and Marco, nothing but the two of them and their feelings for each other.

“I missed you, I missed you so m-much,” Jean whispered, his voice hitching as Marco rubbed himself against him, the movement brainless and needy. He was so hard already; he wanted Marco so _badly_ it almost felt like a violent ache in the pit of his stomach, the longing to be with him so crushing he was shaking.

Marco, seemingly at a loss for words, pulled Jean down for another searing kiss that spoke of all the longing burning inside of him. Long legs wrapped around Jean’s hips, pulling him in, pulling a gasp from his throat at the friction between them.

For all the desperate need they felt for each other, Jean could not tear his gaze from Marco‘s. His eyes were on that beautiful face, hungrily soaking up the wet sheen on his lips and the flush of his cheeks. He devoured the way Marco‘s mouth fell open slightly when Jean pressed into him with a slick finger. The blazing look in his eyes before they fluttered shut in pleasure had Jean shuddering above him. With each finger, each stroke and curl Marco moaned for him, the sound naked and vulnerable with his need for Jean.

“Jean, Jean, please,” Marco begged, breath ragged against Jean’s jaw, almost breaking his heart all over again with the way he sounded, and Jean groaned, completely disarmed by the feeling in his chest. He felt wetness drip down the length of his arousal. “I want you inside of me, I wanna feel you, please.”

Jean pressed his lips against Marco’s once more, letting the wet, hot movements of their mouths mirror the way he moved his fingers, rolled his hips against Marco‘s thigh. Marco whined beautifully into their kiss, his fingers tangled in Jean’s hair again.

When he finally sank into Marco, Jean was still looking down at him, propped up on his elbows and his arms cradling Marco‘s head gently. In unison, they gasped at the sensation of finally being so close again, so wonderfully inseparable. Marco was so hot, so tight; he felt _so good_ Jean had trouble keeping his eyes open, but he was just so unwilling to lose sight of the way Marco looked up at him. With their hot breaths mixing in the tiny space between their open mouths,they moved, ever so slowly, drawing out every single slide as though to make up for the lost time they had not spent in each other‘s arms.

Marco‘s palms were pressing gently into Jean's shoulder blades, pulling him still closer, and Jean obliged him without thinking, letting almost all of his weight rest on him. If the feeling of Marco‘s soft skin, of his gorgeous thighs tightening around him, of his hot pants on his lips didn‘t undo Jean, it was the way Marco now returned his gaze, just as unwavering.

Helpless moans were torn from Jean‘s throat as Marco looked at him, looked into him, wordlessly pleading for more. Jean was grinding deeper into him now, shaking with the effort of keeping the rolls of his hips slow and even. He could feel the words he‘d sworn to bite back bubble up in his throat, threatening to color his sounds with all the complicated mess churning inside of him. Instead, he gasped Marco‘s name, over and over like it could atone for the fact that he was too much of a coward to say the only other thing in his heart.

Something in Marco‘s eyes changed, a flicker, a flame of recognition and Jean knew he could see him, could see all of him. He brought a hand to Jean‘s cheek, his thumb stroking a gentle path across his burning skin, and he leaned into the touch so gratefully.

“Oh, Jean,“ Marco breathed, voice thick with desire and everything Jean hoped with the very core of his being he wasn't imagining. He looked like he might break apart under it. “I love you, you must know I still love you.“

Jean let out a sound that was half moan, half relieved sob and he crushed his mouth against Marco‘s, those flawless lips that had just smashed the vise clamped around his heavy heart.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,“ he babbled, the flood of words finally breaking forth, washing over both of them like a healing current, mending some of the cracks between them. Jean‘s thrusts grew erratic as he finally lost control over himself, moving against Marco with more force, panting hotly against his open lips. When he wrapped the fingers of one hand around Marco‘s hardness and started stroking, he watched the way Marco‘s head fell back, exposing his throat, and he kissed up that soft skin, loving the feeling of Marco swallowing heavily.

“Don‘t – don‘t stop,“ Marco moaned, eyes squeezed shut and his eyebrows scrunched together in that way Jean knew meant he was close. He could feel Marco‘s thighs quaking against his hips.

“You‘re so beautiful,“ he rasped against Marco‘s lips, earning another low gasp that shot hotly through Jean‘s whole body, the hotness lingering and rising, rising. “Please look at me.“

Marco opened his eyes, dazed, to meet Jean‘s gaze and it was like a spark ignited between them. Tightening around Jean, Marco froze for the tiniest moment, then fell apart into shudders and high-pitched moans, Jean‘s name floating from his lips in his bliss. Jean only lasted a couple of seconds, before Marco‘s brainless sounds and the gorgeous look on his face as his orgasm took him over made him lose it, too. With one low groan he came, hips twitching violently and toes curling as the most intense pleasure wracked through him.

For a couple of moments, there was nothing but the blood rushing in his ears and the violent beating of his heart and the way their chests rose and fell together. Jean let his forehead fall onto Marco‘s shoulder and pressed a light kiss to the sweaty skin as he tried to catch his breath. There was a lightness in his chest he hadn‘t felt in a while, and he closed his eyes, savoring the feeling.

Marco‘s arms and legs were still wrapped around him warmly and when Jean wiggled a little, he just tightened his grip.

“Let me pull out, you dork,“ Jean laughed breathlessly into Marco‘s ear.

“No,“ came the grumbled reply. “I‘m not letting go.“

Jean‘s heart gave a squeeze and he couldn‘t tell whether it was painful one or not. So he just nudged Marco‘s sides until he arched his back and Jean could slip his arms around his waist to hold him just as tightly. They stayed like that for a couple of moments, until Marco finally relaxed. Jean moved away just a little so he could get rid of the condom, but returned to Marco‘s embrace without hesitation.

Marco gave him a deep kiss full of memories and maybe promises that Jean let himself fall into gladly. When they broke away, they rested their foreheads against each other. It was so familiar, so wonderful. And Jean wished nothing more than that they could stay like this forever.

“Jean, I'm sorry, I can‘t do this.“

Jean‘s heart dropped into his stomach and his head snapped back to search Marco‘s face.

“What?“

Marco dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, shaking his head at whatever thoughts were raging in his mind. When he spoke, he sounded like he was barely holding it together.

“I can't pretend everything is okay for a day and then just go back to how it was before, I just can't.”

Ignoring the inevitable ache that came with speaking of the mess they had made, Jean pried Marco's hands away from his face and revealed dark eyes swimming with tears. Marco blinked stubbornly, unwilling to let those tears fall, but only made them spill over in the process. Before Jean could react, Marco had torn his hands out of Jean's hold and wiped angrily at the wet tracks trickling into his hair.

“I have to go back to Stohess tomorrow,” he rasped up at Jean, “and that means going back to missing you all the time although I'm not supposed to be missing you at all. I thought it would be easier if we weren't together, but all it did was make me feel fucking worse every single time I think of you, because I keep thinking it's just me.”

“I think about you all the damn time,” Jean said fiercely, cradling Marco's face in his hands. When Marco closed his eyes with a sob at his words, Jean leaned down to kiss his forehead, lips lingering.

“What the fuck are we doing, then?” Marco asked after a minute, meeting Jean's eyes once more. He swallowed. “Can we – can we try being with each other again?”

Jean bit his lower lip, hard, nodding wordlessly and fighting to keep his composure, before he whispered, “Yes, please.”

Their kiss was shaky, interrupted by misplaced but perfect, relieved laughter. Beside himself with happiness, Jean trailed soft butterflies of kisses down Marco's throat, feeling the elated flutter of his pulse under his lips.

“I don't even know how we're gonna do it, but I wanna be with you, no matter what,” he mumbled into his favorite cluster of freckles just below Marco's collarbone. “I'll be there so much you're gonna get annoyed with me.”

Marco's hand stroked through Jean's hair, holding his unruly bangs away from his face, finally looking at him with an expression unmarred by what they'd done to each other. “Sounds perfect.”

Jean pressed another kiss to his lips. “You know what else sounds perfect?” he murmured and received a little questioning noise in reply. “You when you come.”

That made Marco laugh, loud and uninhibited. “Who's the dork now?”

They could barely keep their lips from curling into smiles long enough to kiss properly, but it didn't matter.

“That was amazing, though,” Jean said, wiggling closer and grinning at the way Marco hummed warmly at the contact.

“That's the way make-up sex is supposed to be, isn't it?”

“Hah, clever,” Jean teased, finding Marco's hand on the sheets and lacing their fingers with each other. Several heartbeats passed in which they did nothing but look at each other. There were so many things to say, so much to figure out, but they could afford to bask in this moment, just for a little while. “We can work this out, right?”

Marco squeezed his hand. “It's gonna be hard.”

“I know,” he nodded, searching Marco's face for the fear that was rushing through his own veins, and he found it there. But he also found resolve and hope shining bright in Marco's eyes and he let himself be wrapped up in that faith he had in them. They could do it somehow. They had to.

Later, when Marco had dozed off in Jean's arms, pressed against him snugly, his even breath stroking across Jean's skin, Jean was still looking at him. With heavy lids he watched the way Marco's lashes fluttered as he dreamed, and the lovely trail of freckles over his cheeks, so much more stark now in the summer. And he watched the way the silky strands of black flowed through his fingers as he stroked Marco's hair and the way their bodies still fit together perfectly.

His last thought was a silent vow to never lose sight of him again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos, comments and concrit are very much appreciated :)


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